Page 116 of False God

The fist around my heart squeezes tighter. “It’s getting listed tomorrow.”

The agent thinks it’s going to sell for more than I thought, which is a good thing. But I can’t help but feel like a failure, staring at my sister’s blank expression. I can’t even bring myself to chastise her for the disaster she and her friends left behind. I’ll lecture her later, when we’re not sitting in a hospital, and she doesn’t look so defeated.

“Do we need money?”

I’m too surprised to say anything except, “What?”

“You heard me.” Blythe’s tone is sharper now, cutting to the truth like a predator closing in on a kill. “Are you selling the villa because we need the money?”

“I …” All the times I considered telling her, it never occurred to me Blythe might be the one to ask me. That I’d have to lie to her, or else tell her the ugly truth.

“It’s an easy question, Charles. Yes or no?”

It’s not an easy question.

It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to say to my sister. Because she’s going to want a full explanation of how this happened, which will mean altering her memory of our father forever. Letting her learn he wasn’t the successful, cunning man we both thought he was.

My knee begins bouncing. “I’m handling it, Blythe. Okay? I’m sorry about the villa, but I?—”

“How bad is it?”

Sweat pricks under the collar of my shirt. “It’s not … good.”

“Do I need to leave school? Are we going to lose Newcastle? Will Granny?—”

“No. I—we’ll be fine. Things are tight now, but I have a plan. Just trust me.”

Blythe doesn’t look reassured.

Honestly, I don’t blame her. It took me weeks—months—to wrap my head around this reality. I’m not sure it’s fully sunk in yet actually.

There are still moments when I forget, when I drive up to Newcastle and imagine walking inside to find my dad sitting by the fire, reading a leather-bound book. Ready to chastise me for staying out late or for not receiving first-class honors. When I wake up and there’s no weight yet. When I’m around Lili.

“How long have you known?” she asks me.

I avert my eyes. “Since Papa died.”

“Does Granny know?” Her voice is higher again.

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You know why, Blythe.”

She sighs. “It was Papa’s fault.”

“He made mistakes,” I acknowledge.

“How could he?”

A question I’ve asked myself a thousand times. “People make mistakes. I’m sure he didn’t mean to?—”

“Ruin our lives?” Blythe finishes bitterly.

My chest heaves with a long sigh. “I felt the same way when I found out. Pissed and angry and resentful. It changed nothing. He loved you, Blythe. Loved you so much. I’m sure he thought he could fix everything before it affected us. Just because he was wrong …”

I shrug helplessly.

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